


An Amateur Game of Monopoly

by TearsOfEagles



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 1960's, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Angst, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, England (Country), Gang Violence, Gangs, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 04:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12290787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearsOfEagles/pseuds/TearsOfEagles
Summary: Date: 8 August 1963Convictions: 11 men sentenced (Mr. O. later found) to terms up to 30 yearsCharges: Conspiracy to rob, armed robbery, obstructing justice and receiving stolen goods“I would like to be remembered as a good father. A good brother. A good friend. A good man. But that is simply not going to happen. Like it or not, I have reached the point of infamy when I am going to be remembered simply as ‘Thorin Oakenshield’, whatever or whoever he is in your mind."





	1. Bentleys and Umbrellas

Tuesday 27th November

1962

9:46 AM

Heathrow Airport

 

The Financial Times is not usually an interesting newspaper: it doesn’t have many creative headlines and has hardly any politician bashing. However, it is a rather large paper and it is a great excuse for someone to look occupied.

Behind this newspaper, was a man, sitting in the back seat of a Bentley. His long black hair was hidden under his bowler hat, his beard was neat and his eyebrows were thick.

Over the top of the newspaper, peered his piercing blue eyes through a pair of black rimmed glasses, as he watched out the front window of the car.

His driver glanced at him through the rear view mirror, before raising his eyebrows and sighing into his leather seat.

The rumble of a plane sounded overhead and the car sat silently, smelling of cigar smoke.

Behind it, three men all dressed in black suits, with matching bowler hats and umbrellas, strode across the road; their dress shoes splatting in the small puddles that were dotted round the tarmac.

The man in the back seat continued to read his newspaper.

 

Elvis Presley’s voice swelled and dwindled through the entrance hall, as the three men stepped out of the cold and into the reception. They headed for the small door of the lift. One man dipped his hat to the lady on the desk and winked. She couldn’t have cared less.

The lift shuddered and dinged.

The clock ticked to 9:47.

The gents toilets were located on the top floor, and the door swung open as the three men strode in. The stench of piss and cigarette smoke filled their nostrils and they grimaced as they nodded to the two men already in there.

There was one who was taking his time at the urinal. He had a thin scar running up from his left wiry eyebrow, to the middle of his reddish hairline. Once it must've been quite deep, but now was only a ghost of a scratch.

Another man, who had a deep scar starting from somewhere under his bowler hat, and ending near the right side of his mouth, was smoothing down his brown grizzly moustache in the grubby mirror.

Two of the men, who had walked in, stepped into the two small blue cubicles, switching the vacant sign to engaged, while the other went to wash his hands and shared glance with the bloke touching his moustache.

In the chipped mirror he stared at himself, blue eyes meeting blue. His left hand quickly tucked a white wispy strand of hair under his hat.

The sinks were grubby and the water was cold.

The man by the urinal flicked his bulky arm round, tugged up his suit sleeve and checked his watch.

 

9:56

 

Suddenly, a loud crash came from the doorway, and the men all jumped and turned towards the sound with anticipation.

The caretaker’s eyes were as wide as saucers as he clutched his mop.

The square clock on the wall ticked to 9:57.

 

The Bentley driver scuffed his thumbnail along the new stitching of the car seat, as he watched a plane take off. The man in the back seat glanced towards the mirror and shared a look with him.

“Thorin-”

The driver stopped abruptly when he saw the man in the back hold a finger to his lips.

The driver sighed, scrubbed the side of his face and propped his head up on his hands. A couple of strands of his dark hair fell out of his driver's cap, as his brown eyes watched rain drops drizzle down the window.

 

9:58

 

The red-headed man by the urinal looked out the tiny window to the left of him, quickly zipped up his trousers, checked his watch and knocked his umbrella handle twice on the cubicle wall.

Everyone veered into motion and swiftly marched out of the gents. The man with the thick moustache nodded to the caretaker, who was still quite concerned.

The red-head led the group towards the lifts, and glanced out of another window. Three green trucks zoomed down the road.

Seeing this, he quickly jogged to the lift, nodding to the man with the thick moustache, who let himself in last, before punching the button for the ground floor.

 

Behind the Bentley, the three trucks pulled up. The blue eyed man folded his paper.

 

The numbers for the lift flashed from 5 to 4, and as they did this, the five men reached under their hats and pulled black balaclavas over their faces.

But to their surprise and horror, as the lift reached level 2, the doors started to open.

The men could do nothing but hastily try to hide themselves and turn to face the back of the elevator.

After a couple of silent minutes had passed, they gave each other sideways glances and elbowed each other to push the button again. The door finally closed.

Unknown to them, luckily, the only witnesses were two musty yellow chairs and four rather boring paintings.

The man at the front puffed out his cheeks and sighed as the lift began to move again.

 

The blue eyed man stepped out of the Bentley; face covered with his balaclava; eyes shadowed by his hat. He grasped the wooden handle of his umbrella with a clenched fist and promptly shut the door behind him. The airport stared down at him. He stared up at it.

 

The receptionist cared as much for the military, as they got out of the three trucks, as she did for the three men who previously walked in; only throwing a distasteful glare at them for interrupting her fashion magazine.

They hoisted a square trunk, which had ‘E. Peredhel’ printed on the side, out of the back of the black van. It took two of the guards to lift it, one either side, as they carried it into the entrance hall.

The lift dinged. They looked up.

All of a sudden, five large, suited men with black balaclavas and bowler hats came rushing out towards them, with their umbrellas brandished like swords and bludgeons raised, hollering and shouting.

The gang hit them and struck them with their umbrellas and bludgeons until all of the guards remained cowering on the floor.

The blue eyed man observed the others, with one hand balancing himself on his umbrella, as they beat the guards. Whacks and shouts echoed down the empty airport corridors. He then gestured his hand towards the driver, who backed the car down the road and into the door; its wheels screeching in protest.

He nodded as his men looked up at him, and together all of them heaved the trunk off of the floor and into the boot of the silver Bentley, before they all piled in; the fumes from the exhaust funnelling round their feet.

“GO!” barked the blue eyed man to the driver, slamming the door.

The driver turned his head to see all the guards slowly picking themselves off the ground.

“GET A MOVE ON, KILI!” bellowed the man with the moustache, leaning a large hand on the shoulder of the drivers seat, as a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead.

"ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT," shouted Kili, slamming his foot on the accelerator, before muttering, "No need to get in a tiz."


	2. Croydon

“That doesn’t look like four hundred grand to me.”

In the cellar of a house in Croydon, sat six men. Their shadows were sharp and black on the concrete floor and the light that flooded through the one tiny window, that looked up onto the street, made the edges of their silhouettes glow in silvers, browns, golds and reds as it caught their hair. The smoke that drifted and circled round the room, filtered through the wooden slats of the ceiling, and trailed into the living room above them.

“That’s because it bloody isn't,” muttered the blue-eyed man, as he flicked the stub of his cigarette into the corner of the room and chucked a wad of pound notes onto the wooden table.

A car rumbled past on the road outside and the cellar was filled with cussing and men gritting their teeth.

"Sixty-two," he shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, “Sixty-two grand.”

“That's it? THAT'S IT- THORIN, THAT ISN’T ENOUGH!” shouted the red-headed man, standing up from his chair and kicking it, making it screech and bang against the stone wall.

Thorin sighed and lent back in his chair, “No, Gloin, it isn't.”

“There should be four hundred grand!” fumed Gloin, as he walked to the far-side of the room and threw a dirty look to the older man to his left.

 _“_ I know,” retorted the man, sharply, “Check it again, Thorin.”

“I counted it twice, Balin,” he replied.

“-count it again!” growled Gloin.

“What? Do you think I have some up my bloody sleeves?”

The man with the thick moustache stood up and waved his cigarette at Gloin in the corner, who was breathing rather heavily, “Alright, alright, alright.”

Gloin muttered to himself.

The man ignored him and turned to Thorin, “How much?”

“Minus costs; minus drinks for the blokes who helped us; minus twenty-two grand for the next job setup,” Thorin gave a sigh, “Equal shares about four grand each, Dwalin.”

The room broke into irritated sighs and agitated shuffling.

“Ain't a lot," resided Kili, who sat beside Balin and a blonde man, who shook his head.

“Four grand?” Dwalin murmured softly, as he took a sharp drag from his cigarette, “All that risk, all that planning, for four poxy grand.”

“This was supposed to be the big one!” stressed Gloin, “Look at it, how is that going to last us?”

“-we’ll do better next time,” the blonde man next to Kili muttered.

Gloin turned to him and angrily grumbled, “What have we got now, Fili? With those ludicrous expenses; the costumes, the car-”

“It went to plan!” snapped Balin.

“We got four grand each!”

“IT WAS YOUR TIP OFF, GLOIN!” bellowed Thorin, standing up sharply.

“Well, someone here must have been BLOODY GADDING ABOUT WITH THE BOBBIES THEN.”

Thorin stared Gloin straight in the eye. “Stop looking for shadows,” he said, “We did our job; we were just unlucky.”

“Every time?”

Everyone glanced at Balin, who pursed his lips.

Thorin watched him for a second longer before returning to his chair. He grabbed another cigarette off the table and flicked his lighter open.

“No, not every time,” he spoke in a low voice, through the smoke of his cigarette, “I won’t let it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by "The Sons of Durin" and adapted from "The Great Train Robbery" of 1963, and the mini-series BBC dramatisation of it, from 2013.


End file.
